


your eyes move over the things you want

by cormallen



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:18:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cormallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the spnkink_meme for the following prompt: stalker!Jared. Jared being overtly Jensen's friend, but secretly an obsessive and possessive stalker. Jensen confides to Jared on how scared he is of the stalker. One-sided Jared/Jensen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your eyes move over the things you want

My phone rings at twelve twenty-three; about fifteen minutes earlier than I expected. Jensen must have taken a short lunch again. Huh. That's the second time this week. I gotta remember to ask him about work later tonight, see if he's got some big project going on. Make sure I know if these new meal times are going to become a habit.

I let the phone ring two more times, pick up right as it's about to go to voicemail.

"Hey, man. How's it hanging?"

"Uh, hi, Jared," Jensen says on the other end of the line. He sounds a little tense, voice wavering, and I smile. Imagine him coming back to his desk with his carton of take-out, his silver thermos of juice from the fridge. Imagine his pretty green eyes going wide, lashes fanning out, when he saw _it_. I wonder if he dropped the food. Maybe? No. No, he's got a bit more self-control than that.

"Listen, I'm gonna be a little late tonight. Just, you know. Don't get too drunk without me."

"Oh, yeah? Everything OK?" I ask, wondering if he'll tell me now. Jensen's not a big phone person; he'll probably wait to do it face to face.

Right on cue, Jensen says, "yeah, everything's fine. I just have to, uh, run by Walter's before I come over, shouldn't be long."

Walter. The gift that keeps on giving. Couldn't have wished for a better ex for Jensen if I'd set them up myself.

"Walter? _Marry me, let's move in together and adopt a Benetton ad after four dates_, that Walter? Jen, what do you need to see him for? You're not – tell me you're not," I say, feigning distress.

"Shit, no, I'm not," Jensen huffs. "I just. Listen, I'll tell you tonight, OK?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. See you, what, seven thirty-ish?"

After Jensen hangs up, I go and get the key ring from my nightstand. Four keys, bright, shiny silver. I trace my fingers over them in turn – front door, mailbox, car, Jensen's locker at Kearns Mini Storage. _Want you to have them, Jay. You know, in case of emergency_, Jensen had said, handing me the bunch. Even got me a little plastic yellow dog to hang from the key chain.

I look at my watch. Twelve thirty. The drive's thirty four minutes, on the dot. Jensen's next-door neighbor leaves to go pick her kids up at one fifteen. The mailman's already come and gone; he never shows up later than noon. The kid's gonna bike by to drop off the afternoon paper at around two, which'll give me a little under forty five minutes to get everything ready. Plenty of time. I grab my own keys from the counter, shove a pair of gloves into my jacket pocket, and I'm good to go.

Jensen's house smells like Jensen himself. Sunshine and spice and a faint tinge of Marlboro menthols, even though Jensen tries to restrict himself to the downstairs den with those. I've been on him to quit for a while, though, so, really, any progress is good progress. Besides, if everything goes the way I want it to – and it will – Jensen's gonna be giving them up for good pretty soon.

I take out the gloves and set them on the arm of Jensen's microsuede couch. I'm not actually sure I'll need them at all today, but better safe than sorry. Just in case he freaks out enough to call the police. I can see it now, his eyes red and puffy behind his glasses, blush-stained cheeks, the fear and the shame. Stammering it all out to 911 or the cop on duty. I can almost hear the broken raspy voice, the way he sounds after he's been drinking all night, when he's had a cock down his throat.

When he's scared, and desperately hoping no one will notice.

I get the marker from the whiteboard on Jensen's fridge, printer paper from his desk in the little first floor office. I think I'll start upstairs, and work my way down.

\----

My phone rings at five thirty, shrill and far too surprising. Can't be. Jensen never stops at home first thing; not when he knows I'll have wings and pizza and beer waiting, Rock Band or Halo already cycling through menus on the TV screen. That's what I'm good for. Xbox Wednesdays. Basketball Saturdays. Hitting the Kilkenny on Nickel Night Thursdays. Keeping his spare set of keys. Playing wingman. _You're m'best friend, Jare_, he slurs drunkenly, arm wrapping around my shoulders, mouth slick and swollen, dark pink. Blowjob lips, and no surprise; the asshole he's just sucked off is coming out of the Kilkenny bathroom, smug little grin on his meaty face, and I want to break it right off, bash it into the floor tile, want to push Jensen down to his knees right there in the crowd, want to – but, no. Instead I get _m'best friend, Jare_, beer and Meaty Face's come still on his breath as I get him outside, in the car, buckle him in. Drive him home.

The phone's still ringing; I pick it up, trying to steady my hand.

"Are you paying too much for your car insurance?" the telemarketer says, and I curse. Press 'off' and slam the receiver down.

\----

Jensen knocks on my door closer to eight than seven thirty.

"Traffic sucked. Goddamn clusterfuck over on the Turnpike, construction, half the road's blocked off," he says miserably, wiping his feet on the mat. He's clutching the bouquet of roses in one hand, delicate crinkled plastic wrapping crushed between his fingers.

"For me? You shouldn't have," I grin. Wipe the smirk off my mouth, trade it for befuddled concern. "No, really, these… aren't for me. Right? Right."

Jensen throws the bouquet onto the coffee table. He clearly hasn't bothered putting the flowers in water; the dark red petals are beginning to wilt and the leaves are drooping. Even though I expected as much, thinking about it makes my belly do a twist and churn; my roses, slowly dying of thirst on Jensen's desk, on the passenger seat of his car, and now, here.

"Someone sent them to my office, Jared," Jensen says dully, walks over to my fridge and cracks open a beer. "Someone's… been sending them to my office. Every day since Monday. Three dozen fucking roses."

"Someone?" I prompt as Jensen aims for the couch, and resist the urge to sit down next to him. I settle for the armchair instead, prop my head up on an elbow. "Walter?"

"That's what I thought," he says, taking a long pull of his Heineken. "So I went over there, like I told you. Was gonna shove them right in his face, tell him to leave me the fuck alone."

"And –?"

"And, nothing. Roommate said Walt moved out, like, three months ago. Moved back to North Carolina with his family."

"That doesn't mean anything. You can order flowers over the Internet, from just about anywhere. He could still have –"

"There was a note. Today. With the flowers," Jensen says, enunciating each word, like he's trying to win a spelling bee.

Finally.

"Secret admirer?" I smirk, and Jensen shakes his head. "Here, read it."

Our fingers brush as I take the little paper square out of his hands. They're warm, moist from the beer bottle, and maybe sweat. Jensen's palms sweat when he's nervous, a sticky, salty squelch I kind of want to taste. Which probably makes me a freak, but it's not like Jensen's noticed. Not like he ever notices.

"I hope you enjoy these as much as you're enjoying your spinach salad?" I read aloud. "I don't get it. What the hell does that even mean?"

"It's what I had for lunch today. I got it from the Bread Bowl, across the street, and the flowers were there when I got back. I don't know how he knew. Or she," Jensen says, considering, and I try to stifle a laugh.

The spinach cranberry salad is Jensen's favorite thing from the Bread Bowl; he gets it to go at least three times a week. There's probably not an employee over there who couldn't tell you that by now, but somehow, that goes right over Jensen's pretty head. Like I said, his powers of observation leave a lot to be desired.

"OK, yeah, that's creepy. You should probably tell the receptionist not to accept any more flower deliveries. Maybe, I dunno, call the cops if they keep showing up?"

"Yeah, right," Jensen scoffs, going for a second Heineken. "They're absolutely going to take roses seriously."

"Well, they should. Isn't that their job? Grab me one, too, would you?" I ask him. I could get it myself, but I really want to touch his hand one more time.

Jensen goes home at eleven. He usually does about ten over the limit, so I set the alarm to go off at eleven thirty and get in the shower.

I wish I could see his face when he turns the key in the lock. When he flips on the light switch and sees them, the presents I left him in the kitchen, on the stairwell, in his bedroom. His bed was rumpled, unmade, when I was there earlier – he doesn't make it most mornings, always running just a few minutes late, always needing to rush out of the door. At least Jensen knows he sucks at time management; it's why he always keeps a spare change of clothes in his car, a little zip bag of toiletries, toothbrush, travel size shaving cream, that ridiculous hair gel he likes that smells like processed, plastic fruit. I could smell it in his pillows, the creased cotton of his bedsheets, and, you know, I think I'm beginning to like it, too.

I rinse my hair and wrap my hand around my dick, give it a couple of lazy pulls before I shut off the water. I want more; I have all day. My balls are full, almost aching with it; I trace a finger down, circle the hot, wet skin, tease at the crease of my thighs, my hole, and reach for the towel. It'll be better if I wait. I've gotten so good at waiting.

Jensen calls at quarter of twelve, gorgeous broken stream of words pouring from the earpiece, his voice hitching, almost like he's about to cry, and I could pound nails with my dick right now.

I've seen him cry before. Just the once, when he got the news about his mom. He cried like a kid, full body shudders, big messy sobs and hiccups, like he was bringing up a piece of his soul with each one. Green eyes dark and murky, face swollen and red and so fucking beautiful I could barely breathe, each inhale catching heavy and painful in my chest.

I knew it then. Knew I wanted his messy wet face pressed into my chest, smearing his tears all over my skin. Knew I wanted my arms around his shaking shoulders. Knew I wanted him to cry, again and again. Just for me.

"Jen? Is everything OK?" I say into the phone, pressing the heel of my hand over my stubborn cock.

"Called the police," Jensen burbles, and "fuck," and "Jared, please, please, just get here." I lose it on the second _please_, just enough breath left in my lungs to tell him I'm coming. The phone clanks to the floor as I strip my dick with sharp, vicious twists, my other hand working my balls, squeezing and pulling. Coming is like a burst of fire through my gut, my throat, all the way to my skull, and I slump in the chair as I wind down, sweaty and loose-limbed.

After, I lick my come off my fingers. One of these days, I'm gonna watch Jensen eat it.

\----

When I see the flashing lights outside Jensen's house, I'm really glad I had the gloves this afternoon. Don't get me wrong; if they sweep for prints, mine are gonna be all over the house. They'll be expecting that. I'm Jensen's nearest and dearest, after all; I probably spend as much time here as I do at my own place.

That's why I wore the gloves, and wiped down the door handles and the drawer pulls, the knickknacks I disturbed on his desk, the photos I pulled from their frames. Only a stranger would do that. Someone who's never been invited in.

"Someone's been in my house," Jensen says tonelessly as I get out of the truck. The cops are milling about on the lawn, one furiously scribbling something down in a notepad.

"Shit, Jen. You were robbed? Jesus," I say, but, predictably, Jensen shakes his head. He's less broken up than he sounded on the phone; he's had some time to pull himself together. Still, I'd have liked to see him unravel just a little bit more.

"No. He didn't take anything. Just. Uh. It's a mess in there. My pictures – my things – he was everywhere _in my house_, Jared! He knows where I live, what I eat for lunch, he – it's the same creep who's been sending the roses. It's gotta be."

"Cops think so?"

"He left me notes," Jensen whimpers, and there it is, that little something I was looking for, his plump bottom lip trembling.

I don't ask what was in the notes; I know Jensen won't be able to force the words off his tongue, the things I said I was gonna do to his pretty mouth, to his pretty ass. His very pretty ass.

"Mr. Ackles," the cop calls, and Jensen shuffles over to listen before they pack up.

"You're staying with me tonight," I tell him after they leave, and motion him towards the truck.

"Work," Jensen protests weakly, but there's relief in his eyes, and I stay implacable. "Fuck work. They can deal without you for a day. Come on, let's go."

At home, I make a show out of bolting the door, putting the chain on, even flicking the second lock shut, a precaution I don't usually bother with. I fold out the couch and watch Jensen trying to pretend he's here because he wants to be, not because he can't stomach spending the night alone. There's a little vein drumming in his temple, pale blue zigzag under clammy skin. I can smell it on him, shame and fear mingling together, hot and spicy-sweet, so close I can almost reach out and taste it.

"Jare," he mumbles tiredly, pulling away, and I suddenly realize I've leaned in too close. I can feel the blush rising on my face, the hot rush of blood through my arteries.

"That's, uh, enough excitement for one day, huh," I stammer, pulse pounding, and hand him the spare blanket. "If you need anything – "

"I'll be OK. Thanks, Jared," Jensen sighs, and I barely have time to escape to the bedroom before I've got a hand down my jeans, not even bothering to undo the buttons.

\----

I feed him breakfast the next morning and listen to him call in sick. I offer, but Jensen doesn't want to talk about last night, just flips on the TV and sullenly watches cartoons, then the news before putting Fight Night 4 into the 360. In the afternoon, I drive him back to his house, wondering if I'm going to have to work for this next one, or if he's going to make it easy for me.

He does.

"Could you – I, uh – think you could give me a hand, you know, straightening up?" he asks, opening the car door, and I nod, stretch my mouth into a large, bright smile.

"Of course, man. Was planning on it, anyway. You don't even need to ask."

I plant two more notes for him to find before I leave later that night, one under his pillow and the other in the bedside drawer. The one in his bed he should find tonight, but I don't know how long it's going to take him to find the one in the nightstand, hiding behind his stash of condoms, right between his favorite dildo and the squeeze tube of strawberry flavored Astroglide. I may be ready to play, but I doubt he's gonna be in the mood.

Jensen calls before I make it even halfway home.

\----

He's standing in the driveway when I pull up, duffel bag at his feet, both notes crumpled up in his hand. His eyes are red-rimmed and shining wet. He's barely holding in tears, and I want to tell him it's OK, OK to cry, OK to let it all out. I want to lick the salt as it streams down his freckled cheeks, want to drink every one of his tears down.

"They said they'd s-send a patrol car, but if I had somewhere else to stay tonight," Jensen stammers, shoving the notes at me, and I nod, resisting the greedy urge to gather him in close.

I don't read the notes out loud. I know what they say, anyway, the one from his pillow telling Jensen how much I miss him when he sleeps somewhere else. _Can't wait to play with you_, says the one I left in his toy drawer; I bite my lip, give him a spooked, sympathetic look.

"Are you OK to drive? We can go in my car if you'd rather, but I'm thinking maybe you'd be better off not leaving yours here, you know? Just in case."

\----

I watch Jensen sleep for a few moments before I grab my kit and head downstairs. It's close to sunrise, and stepping outside feels like stepping into warm milk, foggy and humid, moisture immediately beading on my forehead, on the back of my neck. The heat, the graying dark feels oppressive, disturbing; when I look up, I can't see any stars.

I unzip the bag and do a quick check, just to make sure I've got everything I need. A coiled loop of nylon rope, ring gag, blindfold, cuffs, buttplug, a small length of electric cord. Everything else, I'll keep on me.

I stash the bag in Jensen's trunk, right next to his spare jeans and his stupid little baggie of grooming tools, and press the trunk lid down as quietly as I can.

He rolls over on the couch when I come back in, and opens his sleep-muddled eyes.

"Jare, wha – ?" he says groggily. "What're you doin'? What time is it?"

"Quarter of five. I'm just getting a drink of water. It's OK, Jen, shh. Go back to sleep."

"'mkay," he mumbles, already slipping back under. I gingerly pull the blanket to cover his shoulders, feel the warmth coming off of his body in thick, hypnotizing waves.

Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow. I've been waiting. I'm ready.

It's gonna be so, so good.


End file.
